It Isn't About Love (But Maybe, Just Maybe, It Could Be)
by the-original-lovelace
Summary: I'm not sure why I'm writing this or if you'll even read it but I have to. Even if it doesn't change anything, I need you to know how I feel so that, maybe, you'll understand. Merlin, I hope you understand. FEMSLASH: Fleurmione.
1. Eternally Yours

So...this is the first story I've ever submitted on here. I'm really nervous about it but, I figure, it's time. And, FYI, Hermione/Fleur is my HP guilty pleasure :)

* * *

><p>General Disclaimer:<p>

The characters in this story don't belong to me – though I often wish they did – but _are_ copyrighted to their respective owners so, let me make it clear that I will make _no_ profits off of _any_ of these stories. So, you know, please don't sue me.

Personal Disclaimer:

If you don't like _Harry Potter,_ _Fleur/Hermione,_ or girlxgirl in general than read no further.

You've been warned in an effort to save both your time and mine.

Oh, and just remember that there _is_ a difference between a critical critique and a flame.

So, now that all of the unpleasantness is out of the way, please enjoy _It Isn't About Love  
><em>

* * *

><p>My dearest flower,<p>

I'm not sure why I'm writing this or if you'll even read it but I have to. Even if it doesn't change anything, I need you to know how I feel so that, maybe, you'll understand. Merlin, I hope you understand.

It's never been about love; it's always been about control. The idea that you can take me anywhere, anytime, and there's nothing I can do about it. It's what gets you off, what keeps you coming back to me. How far can you push me this time? How close can we come to getting caught? How many times will I let you punish me for crimes I've never committed before I walk away? Before I say enough?

You're never gentle but why should you be? What reason have I given you to make this about more than the physical? If anything I'm just as desperate, if not more so, than you are. I was a dead woman walking until you breathed your life into me, until you gave me something I didn't even know I'd been missing. You're not the other half of me, you're not what I aspire to be; I wish it were that simple. Heart and soul, in and out, from one end to the other, you are me, all of me.

All it took was one look, our eyes meeting across the Great Hall, and I was lost. I knew then that I had to have you or, more accurately, let you have me. I'd always considered myself a strong person, at least until you took me that first time, our bodies pressed together against the wall of the astronomy tower, your fingers plunging in and out of me so fast that I felt like I couldn't breathe. But there's something about you…something that makes me proud to be weak.

You're a habit, a drug I can't quit, an addiction that, if left untreated, will take all of me. But it doesn't matter. The taste you leave in my mouth, the ghosting touches of your hands, the look of your skin bathed in candlelight…I can't live without you now.

I've tried to tell myself that it doesn't mean anything and, if our time together has taught me anything about you, I'm sure you do the same. But it never seems to stop us or to slow the increasing frequency of our meetings. It doesn't make you hesitate to plunge into me over and over and make me scream your name.

No one knows about us, about our meetings filled with nothing but moans and a closeness that was once considered sacred. We've never spoken about not telling anyone. Actually…we almost never speak, unless you count the amount of times we cry out each other's names. Though, if that did count, we would have better communication than most couples our age.

And, Merlin, when we're together…it's more intense than the words either of us could ever manage. The heat pouring off of our bodies is almost as intoxicating as your scent and, even after you're gone, we both know that I'll be able to smell you on my skin. It's your mark, the only one you leave, the only thing you do to show the world that I'm yours.

It seems strange that something so medieval makes me feel so wanted, so unbelievably secure. It should make me want to rebel, to fight in attempt to hold onto whatever I have left of myself but it does the opposite; it makes me _want_ to give in. Like I said before…there's something about you that makes me proud to be weak.

They aren't prearranged, our meetings; I never know when you're going to find me. I get only a moment's notice before your lips crash onto mine, your hands bury themselves in the folds of my robes, and I feel myself lose a little more of whatever it is that keeps telling me this – whatever it is – is wrong.

But it's not my dependence that frightens me; it's the feelings of withdraw I go through whenever you don't find me. The longer I go without, the more I feel myself slipping, and I sometimes think that that's why you wait. Maybe you want me to end this, to demand more from you than you're willing to give.

Sometimes I think you're just as addicted as I am and that scares me almost as much. To think that someone like you, someone so strong, so beautiful, could be so completely lost makes me all but lose hope in the idea of ever breaking free. But then you kiss me and I can't remember any of the reasons why loving you is so bad.

I do; I love you, am in love with you. Nothing but love, no matter how twisted, could make me feel so miserable and yet so wonderful. You have a way about you, a way of bringing out the best and the worst in me. But it's not really that surprising anymore; I've never felt more anything than when I'm with you.

I don't know how much longer I can live like this but I know that, if it ends, I won't survive it. I'm so hopelessly addicted to you, to all of you, that I don't know what I'll do if you ever stop finding me.

So, for you, I'll stay lost because, even if this isn't about love, I love you. I'll wait in this place of in-between, hoping that, if not now, then someday you'll feel something for me, something more than lust.

And I'll do this because, even though I know it isn't about love I think that maybe, just maybe, it could be.

Eternally yours,

HG

* * *

><p>So...what do you guys think? R&amp;R if you please (or if you don't please)<p> 


	2. Your Flower

A second chapter?! it only took me like...forever to update. hope you enjoy!

And, no, I still don't own Harry Potter. Mores the pity.

* * *

><p>I choked back a sob as I crumpled the letter in my hand before hurling it towards the opposite wall with as much force as I could manage, watching with watery eyes as it drifted to the floor. How dare she tell me these things, these beautiful, horrible things and then just…just…I groaned aloud, my fist connecting hard with the top of my desk. It wasn't fair of her to tell me that she wanted, that she needed, this, me, <em>us<em>.

I told myself that there was no us, not really. That she was drawn in as so many others had been before her. After all, I'd always possessed a sort of magnetism; I could enter a room and have a dozen proposals before I'd reached the center. That was the gift my Veela ancestry had given me: a siren's call that whispered from my very core and fell always upon receiving ears.

But I knew that was a lie; she'd been different from the start. _From the moment our eyes met across the Great Hall…_I groaned again, this time in response to the words of her letter that had etched themselves into the walls of my mind. Could I not be free of her even in my own thoughts? Was nowhere safe?

I cursed aloud, the sound of my mother tongue spoken with the biting edge of tears making my already sour mood turn darker still.

"Fleur? Are you alright?" a voice asked from beyond the door, Claire's by the sound.

I nodded, clearing my throat. "I'm fine,"

"Are you sure? I heard…well…" she trailed off, unsure, and I nearly groaned again. The others were always so damned hesitant around me, as though they were half-afraid I would rear back and bare fangs. She had never treated me like that and she had reason! In fact, she was one of the only people who'd ever treated me like…like I _wasn't_ special. And, oddly enough, it made me feel so.

"Fleur?"

"Leave me be!" I cried suddenly, surprising even myself with the ferocity in my tone.

I opened my mouth to apologize but closed it again, realizing that I was far too preoccupied to deal with that now. Besides, those words would come easier with the presence of the sun which would dispel my personal rain cloud with or without my consent.

Right now I needed to focus, to come up with a way to explain the words that were unfamiliar to my tongue even when spoken in my own language. I had no idea how to explain the beating of my own heart, least of all to her, the one it was now beating for.

I ran a hand through my hair, and sighed forlornly as I sank back into my chair. My reflection stared back at me, showing me a girl I barely recognized. This pitiful slip of a girl with bleary eyes and tear-stained cheeks couldn't be me. Not Fleur Delacour, the one chosen as Beauxbatons champion, the one who outsmarted a great dragon?

I pushed away from the mirror, tired of the truth I saw in my eyes. I didn't know how I felt about her, about what we did, what we were. Or maybe I just didn't _want_ to know. It was so much simpler for this to mean nothing, for it to be but a distraction from the competition that could easily claim my life. It would be so much better if she wasn't who she was…if I _didn't_ love her.

I closed my eyes and leaned back in my chair. I did; I loved her, was _in_ love with her. I even knew when it happened, when I fell. It wasn't the moment I saw her; it wasn't even the first time I took her. It was our third or fourth time together. An empty classroom in one of the towers, away from prying eyes. The act itself had been fast, hard, and I'd gotten more pleasure out of the power I had over her than anything she'd done. But, afterwards, we were standing there, our bodies pressed against the wall and she looked up at me, her eyes nearly black with lust, and she kissed me. I hadn't asked, I hadn't compelled…she just did it. She kissed me because she wanted too, because she wanted _me._ And it hit me that I'd never had anyone want me before, not really.

There had been other girls before her and boys too. I was beautiful, popular, and I could take them, so I did. They meant nothing to me and, when finished, I would cast them aside, confident that both of us had gotten what we'd wanted. After all, they'd been compelled either directly or indirectly, by beauty or pheromones…but not her. She was different. In that moment she wasn't looking at me…she was looking _through_ me.

I didn't go to her again for weeks, she'd shaken me so badly. And, when I did, I was so rough that I was sure she'd ask me to stop. But she never did. She took everything I had and, when I finished, I knew that I'd never be able to stop coming back to her because she wasn't some thrall…she was my only.

Dropping to the floor I reached for her letter, smoothing it against my knee. It had been nearly a week since I'd gotten it and every day I spent without her in my arms made the ache in my chest increase tenfold. I'd read the billet-doux over and over again, unable to do anything but rage and sob that it wasn't fair. I wasn't supposed to fall in love with her. But I had. She wasn't supposed to be the one. But she was.

And I didn't know what to do about it.

Confessing my love on bended knee in the middle of the Great Hall seemed dramatic. False. And doing anything less seemed…demeaning. I was Fleur Delacour, a Tri-Wizard champion, one of the most talented witches Beauxbatons had produced in over a century. I could do better than a tearful exchange in a darkened room. And, more importantly, she deserved better. She deserved everything I was ready to give and everything I was too afraid to offer.

I stood suddenly, an idea forming in the core of my mind. I raced from my room, heedless of the looks Claire and the others gave me as I hurried past, and nearly ran into the woman I'd been looking for. "Pardonne moi, madame," I said, curtsying slightly.

"What is it, Miss Delacour?" she asked, her voice booming in the confined space.

I looked around, keenly aware of how everyone's eyes were now on the pair of us. "May we speak in private?" I asked, lowering my voice even further.

Her countenance rapidly became concerned but she nodded all the same, gesturing for me to enter her private apartment. She was the only one besides myself to have a private room though, unlike mine, hers had been so since our departure; I hadn't gotten my own quarters until being named champion. It showed too; hers looked almost exactly like her office at school, down to the large desk that commanded the attention of the room.

I sank into a chair, thankful to be off of my shaking legs, and waited for her to close the door and cast a silencing spell before taking the seat behind her desk. "What is it you needed to speak with me about, Miss Delacour?" she asked.

I cleared my throat, wishing suddenly that I'd taken the time to organize my thoughts before rushing to speak my mind. "I have…come to a conclusion, madame," I said slowly, choosing my words with care. "And it is…not exactly a comfortable one," I admitted.

She leaned forward slightly and only my years in her care kept me from feeling dwarfed by her presence. "Is it about the tournament?"

I shook my head hurriedly. "No, nothing like that. My performance in the final task will not be affected,"

She nodded and tried not to show her relief, though I saw it anyway. I couldn't blame her for it. Winning the first Tri-Wizard tournament in so many years would be great for Beauxbatons and it made sense that, as our headmistress, her first thoughts were for the school. "Then what is it?"

I took a deep breath and let it out just as slowly as I'd taken it in. "You know of my…condition?" I asked, though I already knew the answer. Though it had come out during the wand weighing, she'd known long before that; my mother had made a deliberate point of informing her before I'd started school. And the series of…indiscretions that had marked my record since had been more than enough proof of the claim.

Her eyes narrowed slightly, clearly not liking the turn of the conversation. "What of it?"

"I believe…I believe I've found my…" I cleared my throat. "My mate, madame," I said finally, lowering my eyes to the hands clasped tightly in my lap.

She blinked, her mouth falling open slightly before she clamped it shut with a quiet snap. "Who is it?" she asked, taking me briefly by surprise before I realized I'd have to tell her if she was to help me.

"She is one of the Hogwarts students," I said, careful to gauge her reaction from the corner of my eye. "A fourth year," I added quietly.

"Zut alors," she muttered, pressing a hand lightly to her forehead. "You are sure?" she asked, raising a brow.

I nodded. "She's the only person I've met who is immune to my…thrall," I said hesitantly, feeling my face grow flush.

She sat back in her chair, drawing my eyes from my lap. "Does she…return your feelings?" she asked, discomfort heavy in her words. It was nice to know that I wasn't the only one uncomfortable with this situation, at least.

"Yes, madame," I said, unable to keep the happiness from my voice.

"You're placing me in a difficult position, Miss Delacour," she said slowly and I nodded, knowing that it was true. A relationship between students was one things, between students of different ages another. But a relationship between two different aged students who also went to different schools? Add in my place as champion, my veela ancestry, and the fact that we were both female and it was gossip worthy of even Britain's beloved Daily Prophet.

"I know, madame," I said quietly. "It was not my intent,"

She didn't answer right away and I was surprised to find myself worrying my bottom lip, something I never did. I realized that I'd never been so nervous before, not even when my name had risen from the Goblet of Fire. "Do you…want to pursue the relationship?" she asked, unsure. The ways of the Veela were hard to understand for those not counted among out number.

"More than my next breath," I said immediately. Because, for me, there was no choice. She was my mate. I didn't want her in my life; I needed her.

She sighed. "We must speak with Monsieur Dumbledore," she said, pushing herself to her feet.

I sucked in breath. "Is that really necessary?"

She looked down at me, eyebrow quirked. "If you did not come to me for this, what did you come for?"

I opened my mouth to respond but, despite myself, no words came. Had that really been my intention? To have them know? To have _everyone_ know? "I haven't told her yet, madame," I admitted quietly. "I don't want her to find out like this,"

After what felt like a millennium, she sighed and resumed her seat. "Alright, Miss Delacour. You have three days to tell the girl. And then we take it to the monsieur,"

I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding. "Merci, madame. Merci,"

She waved me off. "Go on now; leave me,"

I stood, bowing as low as my shaking knees would allow, before I left her room and returned immediately back to my own.

Moving to my desk I slipped into my chair and pulled a quill from its perch.

_Hermione,_

_I apologize for not writing sooner; please meet me atop your astronomy tower at midnight tomorrow. I have something to tell you. I'll be waiting. _

I hesitated, unsure of how to sign it. Putting both of our names seemed careless but I didn't want her to have any doubts about who the letter was from. I frowned at the quill clenched tightly in my fingers and signed the only thing I could think of:

_Your flower_

I rolled the parchment, careful not to smear the ink, and slipped it into the pocket of my robes. "Claire?" I asked, sticking my head outside of my room.

She bounded over, her face a mixture of worry and curiosity. "Yes, Fleur?"

"You have a carrier bird, yes? May I borrow him?"

She blinked, surprised. "O-of course," she said, moving into her room and emerging a second later with a white-faced barn owl perched on her arm.

I stepped out and presented my arm. Clicking my tongue I didn't have to wait long for the bird to half-hop onto my outstretched arm, though I was surprised by the weight of it. Tying the message around its leg, I pushed my bedroom door open with my heel so it could see the open window, I watched as it took off, its maneuverability impressive as it slipped through the window and out into the night.

"Merci, Claire," I murmured, not waiting to hear her reply before shutting my door and leaning back against it. "Until tomorrow night," I whispered.

"Mon amour…"

* * *

><p>So, I've got the next chapter all planned out except for one thing...I don't know whose point of view it should be from. Hermione...or Fleur? I'm leaving it up to you, the reader. You decide!<p>

as always R&R please :D

(It's the only way I'll know what to do next, lol)


	3. Long Overdue

I pushed the book off my lap and towards the far corner of the sofa with a muted sigh. I'd been trying to distract myself with the lure of knowledge for the last hour but I was fighting a losing battle and, frankly, I was far too miserable to even bother pretending otherwise.

It had been nearly a week since I'd sent the letter, nearly a week of sleepless nights and equally restless days. Nearly a week of peeking around corners and hoping beyond hope today was the day I received an answer. And, needless to say, it was beginning to take its toll on me. I was short with everyone, even Harry and Ginny, and today, during class, I actually _snapped_ at Professor Snape; I think he'd have taken a full hundred points from Gryffindor if he hadn't been so surprised. As it was, he still took seventy-five.

I knew I had to do something. Ghosting between classes and the tower wasn't fooling anyone anymore, if it had fooled anyone to begin with; even Ronald was beginning to look concerned and I was sure that if Harry asked me what was wrong just _once_ more, everything would come rushing out in a flood of tears and I couldn't have that. What we have, whatever it is, or…or _was_…had been going on in secret far too long for it to come out now.

The thing that killed me was how sure I'd been that she'd…cared. Maybe it was just the workings of a desperate mind but sometimes I'd look into her eyes and see something…else. Something real.

I sighed again, louder this time, as I tried – and promptly failed – to clear those particular thoughts from my mind. What was there to reveal at this point anyway? A non-relationship with a non-lover? I nearly scoffed. Only Rita Skeeter would be desperate enough to try and make a story out of _that_.

"Hermione?" I jumped slightly and turned, heart pounding, only to find myself face-to-face with my best friend.

Harry stood there, his hand buried in the dark hair that stretched over the nape of his neck, watching me with an expression I dared not read into. "I didn't mean to startle you; I called your name from the stairs but I guess you didn't hear me,"

I cleared my throat, feeling suddenly and overwhelmingly foolish. It wasn't as though no one else was allowed in the common room simply because I was feeling sorry for myself. "It's fine," I said with a shrug. "I was just thinking,"

"About anything in particular?" he asked, taking a seat on the sofa beside me.

I shook my head. "No, just thinking," I lied, surprised at how easy the words came now. I couldn't help but wonder what kind of person I'd become, thanks to her. The kind who lied to their friends with a practiced ease, who snuck around and lost themselves to someone who didn't think of them as anything more than a warm body, who-

"Hermione, did you hear anything I said?"

I jumped again, silently cursing myself for getting so caught up in my thoughts. "I'm sorry, Harry. Did you say something?"

He frowned. "Is something wrong?"

I blinked. "No, of course not. Why do you ask?"

"Because it's not like you to not pay attention. Or to put off homework," he added, gesturing idly towards the book I'd pushed aside. "Besides, it doesn't take a genius to see something's been…off with you lately," he finished hesitantly, meeting my eyes with such an earnest concern that I couldn't help but turn away.

"I'm fine, Harry," I heard myself say, the words oddly distant in my ears.

"No, you aren't," he said, his voices soft but brimming with sincerity. "What's the matter?" I felt his hand on my shoulder and it took everything I was not to collapse under the unintended weight behind the gesture. "You know you can talk to me,"

"I know I can," That was true, at least; I _did_ know that. It just didn't make the talking any easier. I couldn't tell him anything without telling him _everything_ and I just…I didn't have it in me to do that. Not now, maybe not ever. "But even if I did…" I swallowed, feeling like I was standing on the precipice of an intensely slippery slope even as I spoke. "There wouldn't be anything you could do,"

He narrowed his eyes. "You're _sure_?" he asked when it became apparent I wasn't going to elaborate. "I do have more than one skill," he added, nearly making me smile.

"I know that, Harry, and I do appreciate the offer," I said honestly. "But trust me…this is something I have to deal with myself,"

He frowned. "Are you sure?"

I nodded. "I'm sure,"

He watched me for a long moment and, slowly, nodded. "Alright, Hermione. But if you change your mind…"

"You'll be the first person I tell," I said, offering him what I hoped was a convincing smile. It had been a while since I'd attempted the expression and I couldn't help but feel the gesture sat uncomfortably on my lips.

But it seemed to do the trick as he offered me a nod and pushed himself to his feet. "Well, I'm heading back to bed. Don't be long, yeah?" he added, the hint of a smile on his features.

I nodded. "Night, Harry," I said, watching as he made his way up the stairs to the boys dorms.

The moment he was out of sight, I sighed. Harry was sweet, quite possible the sweetest boy I'd ever met, and, though he admittedly had _many_ skills, giving romantic advice certainly wasn't one of them. Not that I needed romantic advice, of course; I'd have to be involved in a relationship for that.

I shook my head, once again attempting to clear my mind because, really, what good did it do me to think about it at all? Her lack of answer was, in and of itself, answer enough, wasn't it?

No more. I thought suddenly, pulling my book to my chest as I made to stand. No more thinking about it, about her. I'm tired of not feeling good enough, of not feeling like _myself_.

That's when I heard it. A soft, rustling rap at the window. With a frown, I replaced my book on the cushion before moving closer, only to find an owl nudging itself against the glass. I couldn't help but stare, blinking in surprise. Who could possibly be sending owls this time of night? I wondered, only to shrug and push the window open, allowing the bird inside. It wasn't its fault, after all, that its own had no sense of time.

It immediately flew inside, hooting a quiet thanks before orienting itself on the back of a nearby chair. I hesitated only a moment before moving closer, reaching out to relieve it of its burden. It wouldn't be for me, of course, but no matter how clandestine its delivery there had to be a name on it _somewhere_ and if it was for any of the girls, I wouldn't mind taking it up to the dorms with me.

As soon as I tugged the parchment free, the owl hooted and all but launched itself straight at the window, vanishing into the night before I even had a chance to _look_ at the letter let alone identify its recipient. I was tempted to try and follow its path back to the source but banished the thought as quickly as it had come; why bother trying to investigate someone else's affairs when I had enough trouble with my own?

So I turned my attention to the parchment and that's when I saw it. Written across the top in an elegant hand I didn't recognize, was my name.

"But it…it _can't_ be…" I whispered, even as my eyes devoured the few words on the page.

It couldn't be…but it was. This, these few scattered lines, was my answer.

I swallowed hard, my eyes filling with tears that couldn't decide whether or not they should be angry, happy, or desperately sad. I couldn't believe that was all she'd said. What good did a few paltry lines do my broken heart?

I shook my head, crumpling the parchment in my fist, sorely tempted to hurl it into the fireplace because I deserved _better_. But I couldn't. Not until I knew for sure. Not until I understood how, if she didn't care for me, she could sign the letter 'your flower'. Or, or if she _did_ care for me…how then could she bear to say so little.

I nodded then, squaring my shoulders beneath the thin fabric of my nightclothes, my decision made. Tomorrow night, come hell or high water, at midnight I would be at the astronomy tower.

Beyond that, well…I'd just have to wait and see.


End file.
